The Pale Meridian
The demolition date is Tuesday, Elias. You have until then to clear the wing. I looked up from the ledger, my fingers stiff, the cold biting through the wool of my cardigan. The sap on the page was not ink. It was black, viscous, and cold, spreading in a thin, treacherous web across the paper. I had found the handprint three days ago. My own handprint, pressed into the margin of a 1924...
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